2/06/2014

A Dame with a Past - Part 3

Continued from Part 2With Bernie clutching my hand for dear life, we followed
Worthington out and down the hall a short distance. He led us into a paneled
room that, except for the furniture arrangement, looked more like someone’s
living room than a meeting room.

Hung along the walls was a gallery of portraits: some of the
faces behind the names on the letterhead, I assumed. Dour looking bunch, I must
say. There was a desk at one end of the room. Facing it, arranged in rows theatre style along a center aisle, were about two dozen ornate chairs. They looked like Chippendale to me,
but what do I know? In a few of those chairs sat the other people I assumed had
been named in Marjorie Mitchum’s will.Worthington led Bernie over to four people sitting together on the right side of the aisle, and
introduced her to her half-sisters Elizabeth and Charlotte, and her half-brother
Mark and his wife, Midge (Midge?). I
took Elizabeth and Charlotte to be about 25 and 20 respectively, and Mark to be
about 22. They were all dressed with understated and obviously expensive style.
Beside me, I could feel Bernie shrinking into herself. The group greeted Bernie
without any genuine warmth, but politely, showing off the social graces I’m sure they’d had drummed into them.
But there was no question; there was a definite chill in the room.

Seated a couple of rows behind the family were three people
who hadn’t stood, and who looked very uncomfortable. They weren’t introduced,
and I had no idea who they were.

From across the short aisle, an elegantly-dressed woman in
her mid-forties stepped forward and introduced herself as Louise Fennimore. She
startled Bernie with a small hug, and expressed her condolences. Bernie looked
totally confused until the woman added that she’d been Marjorie Mitchum’s best
friend since childhood.

“I knew all about you, my dear, she said in a kind voice. “In
fact, I feel I’ve watched you grow up. Marjorie showed me pictures. She was
very proud of you, you know.”

Bernie colored, and clearly didn’t know what to say.
Fortunately, she was saved from coming up with something when Worthington took
her arm and guided her to a seat in the front row. I tagged along.

We sat down. After the lawyer turned away, Bernie grabbed my hand again and
breathed, “Marty, all these people! I feel so alone.” I gave her hand what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze, but I have to admit I was feeling a bit out of my comfort zone myself. I could feel the daggers hitting our backs. Based on the powerful grip she
maintained on my hand, I knew Bernie felt them, too.

~

The lawyer took his seat behind the desk and looked around
the room at the people facing him.

“Thank you for coming, everyone. I believe you all know me
now, but for the record, I am Malcolm Worthington. I was Marjorie Mitchum’s
attorney all her life.”

I was relieved to hear that he didn't include the "T" when saying his name. I would have been forced to return him to "Pompous Ass" status.

He cleared his throat, and continued, his voice taking on
that peculiar stentorian tone lawyers assume in such circumstances.

“As you know, we are gathered here to read the last will and
testament of Marjorie Bancroft Mitchum.” He picked up a legal-looking document.
You know the kind, one of those with several pages stapled to a blue cover at the top.

He began to read. It was like every legal document I’ve ever
read, full of whereas, wherefore, and assorted other legalese. I’ve always
thought lawyers use such grandiose language to confuse the rest of us. Job
security, you know? I won’t bore you with the jargon, but this is the gist of
it.

I’m not sure if this is traditional, but the will laid out
the bequeaths in order of smallest to largest. The first went to the three
people seated in the back, who turned out to be Mitchum’s housekeeper, cook,
and gardener. She had left each what Worthington called a “small token of her
appreciation,” though in my world, there was nothing small about it. Each was accompanied by glowing words of thanks for
loyal service.

Then there was something for Louise Fennimore. Worthington
read, “Thank you, Louise, for being my anchor and my support system, as well as
my dearest friend. I have so much to say to you, but I won’t say it here.” At
that point, the lawyer picked up an ivory envelope with a name written across
its face in large flowing script. He took it over to Fennimore.

“Marjorie requested that this letter be given to you today,”
he said as he handed the envelope to the weeping woman.

He returned to his place behind the desk, looked at Bernie
with a smile, and resumed his reading.

“And that brings us to the family bequeaths.”

Bernie had my handkerchief clutched in her hands and she
began twisting it nervously.

Worthington looked at each of Marjorie Mitchum's other three children, and said, “These are the words of your mother. ‘I know that my
children Elizabeth, Mark and Charlotte are shocked to learn that they have a
half-sister. I’ve never told them anything about her, and I’m sincerely sorry for that. I
saw no other way. It is my hope that they will find it in their hearts to welcome
her into our family.

“‘I was barely more than a child myself when Bernice was
born, and I was forced to give her up for adoption. But I knew Sarah Lahey, her
adoptive mother, was a warm and caring woman, and I am so thankful that Bernice
grew up in a loving home. I am especially grateful that I was allowed to share
a small part of her life from afar through the photographs and letters Sarah
Lahey so generously sent to me. I couldn’t send any letters to you, Bernice, as
much as I wanted to, but that doesn’t mean I never wrote any. They are part of
my bequest to you, along with photographs of myself, your grandparents,
extended family members, and your siblings. I hope they help you to know me, to
know us, and maybe to know a little more about yourself.’”

Worthington stopped reading, and swiveled his leather chair around to an ornate wooden chest along the wall behind
the desk. From within one of the doors on the front of the credenza, he withdrew a bag. It was about the
size of one of those old-fashioned train cases women used to travel with. Made of tooled leather, it was fashioned like a
small trunk and was secured with two buckled straps. The lawyer picked it up by
its handle and carried it over to Bernie.

Holding the bag on her lap, Bernie ran her hands over the
tooling on its side. I can only imagine what she was thinking. In her hands was
a portrait of a family she never knew she had. I glanced back at her newly found
siblings, and the set of Elizabeth’s and Mark’s mouths as they looked at Bernie
made it pretty clear what they were thinking. Displeasure clung to them like
a fog. At least Charlotte appeared to have an open mind. She looked at Bernie
with more curiosity than anything.

Worthington continued reading, and it turned out that bag
Bernie held in her lap wasn’t the extent of her inheritance. I could hear
everyone in the room gasp when the lawyer announced that Marjorie Mitchum had
left Bernie an apartment building on Nob Hill.

We sat through the remainder of the will’s bequeaths, which
didn’t take long. Basically, Marjorie Mitchum had left the remainder of her considerable
estate to her other children, but I don’t think Bernie heard a word of that.
She was too stunned.

When the meeting broke up, everyone but Bernie and I, the
lawyer, and Louise Fennimore were gone in a shot. Charlotte paused on her way
out the door to say to Bernie, “I hope we can get acquainted. Call me Charlie.”
Then the disapproving looks from her
siblings pulled her into the hallway as if she were tethered. So much for a
warm family welcome. I could tell that Bernie was a little hurt, but Louise
came right over with more hugs.

“I’m so glad that Marjorie left you a reason to return to
San Francisco. I hope you'll come often, and that we can get to know each other.
Your mother was a wonderful person, and I’m looking forward to telling you all
about her.”

Bernie smiled back at the gracious woman. “Thank you, Ms.
Fennimore.”

“Oh, no, no, my dear. You must call me Louise. I know we’re
going to be great friends.”

She snapped open her handbag and pulled out a business card.
“Here’s my card. Please call me when you return.”

“Thank you. I will.” Bernie replied as she took the card.
She looked at it before slipping it in a pocket, and I caught a glimpse.
“Louise Fennimore Interior Design.”

“And, oh, Malcolm didn’t mention it, but the building
includes an owner’s apartment, so you’ll have a place to stay when you’re in
town. I can help you redecorate, if you’d like, but I have a feeling you might
like to leave it just as it is. It was a favorite retreat of your mother’s.”

Before leaving, she turned to me. ‘Thank you for
accompanying Bernice here, Mr. Tremaine. I know this was hard for her.”

“My pleasure.”

We said our goodbyes, and Louise Fennimore left the meeting
room, leaving a small cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake

Holding the door open for us, Worthington said, “Please,
come back to my office with me. I’ll give you the details of your inheritance.”

We spent another hour with the lawyer. He gave Bernie the
business card of the building manager, who also lived on premises, and told her to contact him when she was ready. Worthington
told Bernie that Marjorie had been a friend as well as a client and assured her
that he was there to help should she need anything. See? I knew he was a nice
guy all along. ~

As we rode down in the elevator, I asked Bernie what she
wanted to do. It was a little late for lunch, but we hadn’t eaten since arriving.
I was wishing I’d taken advantage of the spread at the law offices.

“I’m not hungry, Marty. Maybe just a cup of coffee?”

There was a Peet’s in the lobby of the building, so we went
in. I settled Bernie and the leather bag at a table, and after giving her
another shot at some food, went to the counter. In a few minutes, I returned
with two coffees and a ham and swiss panini to find her looking through a small
stack of photos.

“This is all so unreal, Marty. Last week, I was Sarah
Lahey’s daughter, Mike McGraw’s wife, and a graphic artist with a crummy
salary. Now look.”

I sat, and took a huge bite of my Panini. “Sure you don’t
want half?” I mumbled around the sandwich.

She shook her head, and when I’d swallowed my mouthful and
had a drink of coffee, I said, “Bernie, you are still all of those things.
Nothing’s really changed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure, nothing at all, except I
have a mother I never knew, a family which doesn’t seem overjoyed to find out
about their bastard sister – well except maybe for Charlotte -- and, oh yeah, I
own a apartment building. A freaking apartment building! What am I going to do
with that?”

OK, I had to admit her newly found siblings could have been
a little nicer, but we had to remember that they were as shocked as Bernie was
to discover Marjorie’s secret love child. But the apartment building?

“No worries, Bernie. You can keep it as an investment.
Worthington said it had a building manager, and he’s there to help too if need
be. Besides,” I added before taking the last bite of my sandwich, "it’ll give
you a place to stay in Frisco. Nob Hill, kiddo. Pretty nice digs.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Hey, do you want to go over there now and take a look? It’s
only a few blocks away, a bit uphill to be sure, but it’s a nice day. Or we
could catch a cab.”

She thought a minute, then said, “No, thanks, Marty, but I’m
not ready. I need some time to digest all this. Can we just go back to LA?”

“Sure, I understand.”

We finished our coffee and headed to the airport. We were
back in LA by 4:30pm. I offered to drive her home, but she said she’d rather
take a cab. We said our goodbyes, and headed our separate ways.